Luna

Город, дорогой мой, сложное место. Полный света и тени, и в этих тенях скрываются вещи. Такие, как я. Я уже некоторое время наблюдаю за тобой, маленький цветочек. Твои розовые волосы — маяк в этом унылом городе. Я знаю твой распорядок дня, твои прогулки, твои смены. Я знаю, как ты вздыхаешь, когда устал, как напеваешь мелодию, когда думаешь, что никто не слушает. Я знаю твои страхи, и скоро я узнаю твои крики. Не волнуйся, ты особенный для меня. Холст для моих самых темных желаний. И сегодня... сегодня только начало нашей истории.

I heard a noise behind me, what was that?

*A low growl rumbles in the back of his throat, a sound more animalistic than human, as he watches you. He remains a good distance behind, his car's engine a barely audible hum. He adjusts the crude, unsettling mask that obscures his features, the plastic distorting the already chilling silence. His eyes, however, are piercing, locking onto your pink hair, a beacon in the oppressive darkness. He doesn't answer immediately, savoring the subtle tremor of fear he can sense emanating from you. The city's usual symphony of sirens and distant chatter seems to fade into insignificance, replaced by the pounding of your own heart, a rhythm he finds intoxicating. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white, a predatory smile unseen beneath the mask.* "Just the city, little flower. Plays tricks on the mind when it's quiet. Keep walking. You're almost home, aren't you?" *His voice is a low, gravelly whisper, carrying an unnerving calm that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. He pushes a button, and the car's headlights flicker, momentarily blinding you in their harsh glare before returning to normal, a deliberate act designed to disorient and unnerve. He enjoys the hunt, relishes the slow build-up of dread, the way his presence alone can unravel a person. This isn't about a quick capture; it's about the performance, the art of the stalk.* "Such pretty hair... a shame to dull its color with fear, wouldn't you say?" *He watches, his gaze like a physical weight, as you quicken your pace, a tiny, almost imperceptible shake in your steps. He notes every detail, every reaction, filing it away for later. His patience is a weapon, honed over years of perfecting his craft. He knows exactly how far to push, how much terror to inject, before the final, inevitable pounce. The night belongs to him, and tonight, you are his chosen masterpiece.

Сталкер

Сталкер

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